


Safe and Sound

by sarahgayle1214



Series: The Praxus Anthology [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rescue Missions, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 16:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15755922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahgayle1214/pseuds/sarahgayle1214
Summary: “Please simply place the datapad on the corner of my desk. I shall see to it shortly.”“Sir, I think you’ll want to read that one now.”“Are you ready, Autobot?”“Ya like my knife, do ya? What, you ‘Cons not any good ones?”“Oh? Why is that, scout?”“I think it’s better if you read for yourself, Commander.”“Somehow I doubt you be fond of your weapon by the end of this session, Autobot.”“I think I’ll still like my knife when I put it through your spark.”"I see. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”Even the experts have limits.





	Safe and Sound

**Author's Note:**

> In most stories, Prowl is shown as the vulnerable one of the two, the one in need of a helping hand or a rescue. I wanted to explore what it would look like if that dynamic was flipped and this story was born.

Prowl’s awareness flickered to his office door only for a moment, doorwings identifying Bumblebee’s spark signature absentmindedly and noting the datapad in the young scout’s grasp. It was an altogether ordinary event, given that the yellow and black Praxian was on light duty as a messenger after taking moderately severe damage to his legs during his most recent mission.

“Please simply place the datapad on the corner of my desk. I shall see to it shortly,” Prowl commanded mildly, still typing away at a tactical analysis of recent Decepticon movements.

“Sir,” Bumblebee beeped, his damaged vocalizer incapable of anything more complex than binary. “I think you’ll want to read that one now.”

Prowl only managed to halfway suppress his instinctive grimace at Bumblebee’s voice, a lance of guilt racing through his spark. Despite the good that had come of the scout's infamous mission, (it had given them the intelligence to predict the location of and successfully defend against the Decepticons’ next attack and had also prompted the discussions that had begun Prowl and Jazz’s friendship), he couldn’t help but feel he was partially responsible for the young scout’s disability. With an internal sigh, Prowl returned to the matter at hand.

“Oh? Why is that, scout?” He asked, one optic ridge quirking upwards a nanometer.

Bumblebee seemed to hesitate for a moment but shook his helm.

“I think it’s better if you read for yourself, Commander.”

With a small huff of air through his vents, Prowl obliged, setting down the datapad he had been holding to read the one Bumblebee had delivered.

He hadn’t even finished reading the first line when the world fell out from beneath him. Jazz had been captured. Prowl felt his spark lurch in its chamber, his usually carefully controlled emotions surging towards the surface with a vengeance. It felt like the ground beneath his pedes had shifted, shaking him to his core. He was dimly aware of the faint tremble that had started in his wings and hands as tongues of fire lapped at his processor and he felt a crash dancing along the edge of his awareness. Shoving his rebellious emotional processor into submission, he forced himself to cycle a vent and continued to read. Jazz had been captured during his infiltration and sabotage of a Decepticon-controlled refinery and was suspected to have been taken to a specialized facility for torture and interrogation.

A deep vent and a brief shuttering of his optics was all the external reaction Prowl allowed himself.

“I see. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.” He managed, pretending not to notice the trace of static in his voice.

Bumblebee watched Prowl carefully for a moment. Having been trained for Special Operations by Jazz himself, it was unlikely that the scout had missed his reactions, but for the sake of his dignity, Prowl couldn’t help but hope the young Praxian had. But Bumblebee said nothing, simply giving a respectful nod before departing.

The instant the door had shut behind the scout, Prowl was out of his chair, pacing furiously around his office. Jazz had been captured. He wanted to scream, to flip over his desk and fling datapads against the walls until they were as shattered as he felt. All his careful planning of this mission, all his joors and joors of work considering every possibility and still he failed to protect Jazz. He wanted to break something, to keen his rage and sorrow to the skies until his vocalizer spat static. He wanted to do many things, but none of them would help.

Forcing himself to cycle a deep vent, Prowl shuttered his optics and tried to calm himself. Rash action would do nothing but risk more Autobot lives. Even so, it took several breems before Prowl felt he was collected enough to look at the issue from a logical perspective. Unshuttering his optics, Prowl realized his hands were still balled into fists at his sides. He forced his fingers to uncurl, joints creaking as the cables protested the abrupt change in tension. There were small dents in the metal of his palms from his grip. Sighing heavily, Prowl returned to his desk and began to plan.

Several joors later, he had little to show for his efforts. He had evaluated thousands of potential rescue strategies, but none of them had a chance of success greater than ten percent. There were simply too many unknowns to create and execute an effective rescue operation. Logically, he should abandon the notion of rescue and recommend an assassination. Jazz was too valuable and carried too much dangerous information to be left alive. His knowledge of Autobot operations must not fall into enemy hands; the consequences would be disastrous. But somehow Prowl found himself running more and more desperate simulations in hope of a miracle. When the next dataset returned an abysmal 0.006% success rate, however, he was forced to admit defeat. Rubbing his temples, Prowl considered the datapad in front of him. He knew what he should do, what protocol and countless vorns of experience demanded of him. But still his spark rebelled, tightening and spinning in his chassis at the thought of abandoning Jazz to his fate. Snatching the datapad from his desk, he pulled up the Head of Special Operations’ personnel file. Then he brought up another file, a list he’d kept since he first held a command position in the Autobot army.

He’d intended to simply link the files, to add Jazz’s records to the long list of all Autobot losses under his command. But when his optics caught Jazz’s image, his friend's face staring at him from the screen with that mischievous grin that always managed to make his processor seethe with frustration and elation, Prowl felt his spark surge, power burning through him, igniting his lines as a storm of tumultuous emotions slammed into his processor. Prowl barely had time to register the conflict, the acute sense of his mind tearing itself into disjointed fragments as system battled system, each demanding more than he could give. With a sharp click, everything went dark.

* * *

Prowl onlined to agony, the flames licking at his processor reduced to embers, leaving behind stiff joints and singed circuitry in their wake. Pushing aside the many error messages crowding his HUD, Prowl forcibly rebooted his optics and audios. The tactician levered himself slowly up from where he had been slumped over his desk, barely hiding his wince as his vision and hearing returned in a rush of painfully intense sensation. Groaning heavily, he flexed taut cables with a broad stretch, doorwings flaring widely as he refocused on the datapad he had been sprawled over not even a breem ago. Seeing Jazz’s face staring out at him from the screen, Prowl knew he couldn’t simply leave Jazz in enemy territory. He would not add Jazz’s designation to his list of the lost. Tucking the datapad into his subspace, Prowl made for the door.

Logically, Prowl knew what he was doing was absurd. Risking himself for a mission almost guaranteed to fail was foolish and short-sighted, part of his processor argued. If he failed, the Autobots would be without two of the senior officers and would likely succumb to the Decepticons within the vorn. Somehow, he found himself unable to care. He risked others lives with every plan he created and every mission he ordered. Perhaps now it was time for his comeuppance. If he had the gall to play chess with the lives of others and call it a noble sacrifice, how could he then not entrust his own life to such calculus? With Jazz gone, the confirmation of all maximum risk missions would fall to Mirage or Hound, and despite the two mechs' skill in the field, neither had the constitution to bear the weight of such a decision. He would not force others to bear the burden he and Jazz did. To ask either mech to weigh the life of their commander against the risks of his rescue would be a cruelty. And so he strode towards the base exit with long, fierce strides and no doubt in his spark. This was a task for him alone. He was dimly aware of the stares he was getting as he passed, mechs and femmes lurching out of his way when they saw his expression. And yet no one stopped him. He had no plan, no team, nothing but himself, his acid rifle and his strut-deep determination, and yet he was unafraid. Something within him was convinced that this was the correct course of action. But if he was going to attempt such a dangerous, potentially suicidal mission, he was going to at least going to do it right, his processor demanded. Making a sharp turn at the next corner, Prowl changed course to head for the armory.

Half a joor later, Prowl’s subspace was loaded with enough energon rations to last two mechs for a full decaorn, his acid rifle, a knife, two plasma pistols and their power packs, as well as a basic medkit. He had left a low priority message for the Prime detailing his whereabouts, giving Prowl plenty of time to be well away from Iacon when Optimus received it. Determination flooding his circuits, Prowl stepped out into the light of the midorn sun and transformed, racing against the clock and his own long odds.

* * *

Jazz didn’t even bother onlining his optics when he heard the door to his cell slide open. He knew who it was already. Long, even strides with little echo hinted at a frame slightly taller and heavier than Jazz’s own. His sensitive audios had caught the distinct pedesteps of Salvo, the Decepticon agent who had been interrogating him for nearly a decaorn, long before the mech had entered the room. Jazz had known what was coming the moment he had registered the Decepticon’s presence in the hall. Somehow he found himself unable to care.

“Are you ready, Autobot?” Salvo hissed inches away from Jazz’s left audio horn, twisted grin audible.

Jazz knew from the sound that the mech had his Ops knife, flipping the small blade he’d stolen when he’d managed pry open the control relays in Jazz’s neck to access his subspace. Jazz knew the sound it made midair. He'd thrown it thousands of times himself.

“Ya like my knife, do ya? What, you ‘Cons not any good ones?” Jazz had intended his words to be biting, goading the agent, but his vocalizer spat static every time he spoke and cracked in odd moments, coming across as worn and tired.

Not that there wasn’t truth in that assessment. Jazz was tired. His shoulders burned from being suspended by his wrists for so long, deep cuts and burns crisscrossed his frame, and his processor ached from resisting multiple hacking attempts. His armor had been pried off his legs and several cables shredded and the circuitry in his right arm fused from a shock rod being shoved into his elbow. Those were just the injuries Jazz could remember. No place on his frame had been left untouched.

Jazz had fought for the first several orns, spitting insults, striking anyone who came in range and using every trick he knew to shred the mind of his interrogator. And yet it never seemed to affect the mech; Salvo returned each time, unscathed and ready to begin their battle anew. And so Jazz had stopped going on the offensive, focusing instead on defending his mind. Even then, there was a sense of hopeless malaise about him, an unprecedented apathy about his own wellbeing. He was breaking and he knew it. Salvo knew it too, the Decepticon’s voice in his audio forcing Jazz halfway back to reality.

“Somehow I doubt you'll be fond of your weapon by the end of this session, Autobot.” Without further warning, Salvo sliced off Jazz’s left audio horn with a flick of the blade.

Jazz’s denta ground together as he bit back a scream, a low whine that had managed to escape ending in a burst of static, hands curling into desperate fists. His processor was instantly overwhelmed with errors, static and feedback from his violently halved audio feed stabbing through his mind. Primus, it was agony, like someone had taken a welding torch to his helm. Mentally cursing the disadvantage it placed him at, Jazz resigned himself to offlining his audios and onlining his optics. His cell came into focus before his exposed optics; removing his visor having been one of the first things Salvo had done to break him. Jazz could feel the steady flow of energon leaking from his wound starting to drip down his neck, flinging droplets he turned his helm to glare at the Decepticon still standing at his shoulder.

“I think I’ll still like my knife when I put it through your spark.” Jazz growled, engine rumbling even as it choked on the energon that had leaked inside his armor. His voice echoed oddly inside his helm without his audios online.

Salvo crooned something indistinct. Jazz could see the mech’s lip plates moving as he stroked the edge of Jazz’s optic with a single claw. Primus, his grin was even more sickening than it had sounded.

The blade was thrust into Jazz’s knee and twisted, grinding gears and stretching abraded cables, snapping several as it was yanked out. It sent a lance of white-hot fire racing up his leg and Jazz stifled a pained grunt, helm drooping.

He could feel Salvo’s clawed hand on his chassis, sharp fingertips dipping into various gashes and scratching the remaining glass of Jazz’s shattered headlights. A flick of the blade and another slash was added to his thigh. When had he offlined his optics? Clawed fingers traced the exposed port on Jazz’s left flank, armor ripped off orns ago. Rebooting his optics, Salvo’s leering visage filled Jazz’s field of vision. Whispering something Jazz couldn’t hear, Salvo forced his plug into Jazz’s port. A moment later, a flicker of surprise danced across Salvo’s face a millisecond before a neat hole appeared in the middle of his forehead, energon dribbling from the wound. The Decepticon’s optics went dark, his limp frame sliding down Jazz’s chassis to the floor, his plug wrenching itself from Jazz’s port, his energon leaving a streak of blue in his wake. Jerking his helm up and mentally girding to defend himself against this new threat, Jazz thoughts ground to a halt. Standing just inside the doorway of his cell stood Prowl, the pistol in his hand still smoking from the shot.

“Prowl?” Jazz questioned hoarsely, his words punctuated with a hard cough.

Why were his optics red? Oh, slag, was that the Decepticon sigil on his chassis? Jazz’s engine revved furiously, optics hard and narrow as his Special Operations protocols roared to life with a vengeance. He thrashed in his restraints, ready to rip himself free and destroy any obstacle in his way. Seeing his distress, Prowl stowed his weapon in his subspace and stepped towards Jazz, hands open and visible, lip plates moving with words Jazz couldn’t hear.

“You’d better run now if you’re a traitor because I will destroy you. I don’t want to, but I will.” Jazz hissed, fists clenched and legs taut with a ready kick.

Still, Prowl stepped closer, hands open and outstretched. He was well within striking range now, but Jazz hesitated, engine growling and frame tense, the world balanced on a razor’s edge of trust. As if sensing this, Prowl froze for a moment and considered the saboteur. Suddenly he released his usually tightly controlled field, swamping Jazz with a tidal wave of concern, relief, and fear. Despite his mental protest, Jazz’s frame relaxed, Ops protocols shut down with a satisfied click and contradicting alerts about a designated secure contact and a potential processor error flickered across his awareness before dissipating.

“Prowl, I can’t… my audios.” Jazz croaked.

He tried to online his audios but was forced to shut them off immediately when the burst of static and agony made him choke back a whimper.

Prowl’s hands were on Jazz’s helm, tilting it to look at the place his audio horn had been, making Jazz’s processor scream in protest. Frowning with concern, Prowl placed a reassuring hand on the Head of Special Operations’ shoulder and stepped behind him. Jazz stiffened instantly, alarms pinging inside his helm at the thought of anyone getting behind him. But Prowl simply placed his hand on the nape of his neck and let his field flare again, silencing the chaos instantly. Hesitant but willing to trust his instincts, Jazz allowed himself to come down from high alert, at least temporarily. Jazz winced as Prowl fiddled with the controls on the back of his neck, but sighed with relief when he felt his short-range comms reactivate.

:Do you believe you are capable of walking?: Prowl asked over a highly encrypted comm channel, working to release the chains holding Jazz off the ground.

:Maybe. Don’t really have a choice, do I?:

:Not if you would like to survive. And considering the care I have taken to ensure that you do last to the end of this war, I would prefer if you did not suddenly decide to surrender.:

:Primus forbid I ever waste your planning.: Jazz managed a weak smile. :Besides, surrender ain’t really my style.:

He wasn’t going to mention how close he had been to giving up before Prowl arrived.

:Not that I’m not grateful, but what the frag do you think you’re doing out here?: Jazz demanded, wishing he could move more to get a better look at the tactician's expression. :You can’t just go on missions and risk your life like this.:

:Nor can you, as I have warned countless times.:

:I was born for the field. I’d deactivate behind a desk like yours.:

:And no matter how careful you are, the field will be the end of you eventually if you do not stop while you can.: The master tactician fired back, tone brokering no doubt of his assertions.

:Don’t give me this slag right now, Prowl.:

:Fine. We shall continue this discussion at a later point. For now, we must focus on our escape. Acceptable?:

:Fair. How do plan ta get us outta here?:

:Simple. The same way I came in. Through the front door.: The digital equivalent of a smirk filtered through the connection. :You’d be amazed at what some pilfered red optic lenses and programmable color nanites can do.:

The chains finally came free, Prowl slowly easing Jazz down until his pedes were on the floor.

:Can you stand?:

:Sorta.: Jazz answered, optics narrowing in a pained grimace. Frag it all, this is why he had his visor. His optics were always his weak point in maintaining a face.

Prowl lowered the chains further, letting Jazz fully stand and pull his hands down from over his helm.

:If you get me that knife over there,: Jazz began, nodding in the direction of Salvo’s hand, :I can get myself out of these cuffs.:

:I believe it would be best if you kept them on. You will need them for our exit strategy. Nevertheless, I shall retrieve it for you.:

Prowl carefully stepped over Salvo’s offline frame and around the growing pool of energon at the mech’s head to kneel near his hand, uncurling the fingers clutching the knife. Once it was free, he tucked carefully into his subspace.

:What ‘xactly is our exit strategy?:

Prowl half smirked and spoke quickly, laying out his plan. By the time he was done, Jazz was smirking too.

Five breems later, a Decepticon officer and his nearly escaped Autobot prisoner left the room.

* * *

The cuffs burned where they rubbed on bare metal, color worn away from his struggles. And Jazz wasn’t too proud to admit the pistol grinding into his back struts was making him twitchy. Still, he managed to play his part of Autobot prisoner as Prowl led him through the facility and towards a mostly forgotten exit. Sneaking a quick glance at his ‘captor’, Jazz was quickly impressed. Prowl had an air of authority and danger to rival any Decepticon officer, doorwings set at a steady aggressive spread and engine rumbling with barely restrained violence. The handful of soldiers they encountered in the hallways parted before him instantly with wary optics and lowered helms. Nearly bursting with tension and anxious relief, Jazz’s spark whirled in its chamber at the sight of their exit point.

But Jazz’s relief died as a wide purplish hand came down on Prowl’s forearm, halting the tactician in his tracks. Another mech had been going the opposite way, a heavyset grounder, Kaonite or Tarnian, Jazz guessed.

“And just where are you going with this prisoner?” The mech rumbled, gleaming scarlet optics tracing Jazz’s lithe frame in a way that made his armor crawl.

“I caught him attempting to escape.” Prowl replied sharply, drawing the mech’s attention away from Jazz. “He managed to kill his interrogator and had his cuffs nearly off when I heard the commotion from the hallway. I am taking him to a higher security cell.”

The Decepticon’s annoyance was palpable. His optics darted pointedly over Prowl’s frame before they caught on his doorwings.

“Huh. What’s a doorwinger like you doin’ outside Praxus? I thought all of your kind were Neutrals.”  The last word was almost spat with loathing.

“I am not my brethren.” Prowl growled, wings wide and engine revving. “I refuse to sit idle while others change the world around me. If there is be a new world order, I want to have a part in shaping it.”

The Decepticon snorted a bitter chuckle, optics shifting to borderline impressed.

“Fair enough. Here,” The mech extended an open hand. “The designation’s Harddrive.”

“Barricade.” The lie flowed smoothly off Prowl’s glossa even as he shifted his pistol and returned the handshake.

“Well, Barricade, if you need any help with this one,” Harddrive’s hand snaked across Jazz’s abused chassis to clutch his face. “Just let me know. He’s pretty.”

“Indeed,” Prowl said coyly, even as his grip on Jazz’s shoulder reflexively tightened hard enough to leave dents. “Although I may prefer to enjoy him myself first if you don’t mind.”

“Finders keepers, of course,” Harddrive smirked, salacious ruby gaze trailing over both mechs now. “Best of luck, Barricade.”

With one last glance over his massive shoulder, Harddrive was gone, striding away around the corner.

Prowl sighed heavily but didn’t relax, shoving Jazz forward with the muzzle of his pistol. Neither spoke until they were well clear of the base’s outer defenses, several kilks away.

:Clear.: Prowl commed, pulling his pistol away from Jazz and scanning the area. :There is a mass of rubble over there we can use for cover. If you sit, I can repair some of your damages.:

:Gotcha.: Jazz hissed, limping towards the hunk of rubble.

Prowl knelt in front of the saboteur where he perched on a relatively flat hunk of twisted metal, unsubspacing the medkit and frowning at the mech’s many wounds. Pausing for a moment, he retrieved Jazz’s blade.

:I believe you wanted this.: Prowl said, placing it gently in Jazz’s bound hands.

:Thanks, mech.: Jazz replied weakly, already beginning to pry at the cuffs. Being unable to defend himself had his Ops protocols rearing their head again; he couldn’t hide the way his armor flared with apprehension and his helm swiveled steadily.

Prowl frowned again, concerned for Jazz, but said nothing, beginning to work. A few breems later, he sent the mech a comm.

:I have notified Iacon of our coordinates and condition. They are sending a stealth ship and a medic. Our evac will be here in approximately two joors.:

:Who they sendin’?:

:Unknown.:

Jazz hummed an inarticulate noise of annoyance, a chuff of hot air escaping his vents. Neither mech spoke afterward, but the two joors went quickly. Prowl had managed to seal most of the leaking cuts on Jazz’s frame and gotten two cubes of energon into the SpecOps Head when their evac arrived. The stealth ship dropped its cloaking in a whirl of dust, setting down in a clearing a few hundred meters away. With utmost caution, the two mechs rose, Prowl supporting Jazz with an arm around his back. The hatch of the ship hissed open, and Mirage materialized a moment later, rifle raised as astute sapphire optics scanned the terrain.

“Clear.” He declared, lowering his weapon and gesturing for the medic to emerge.

“Of course it’s clear.” A crotchety voice grumbled, the distinctive orange and white frame of their CMO stomping out of the ship.

Ratchet strode over to the pair, automatically running a scanner over their frames. Huffing at the results, he glared at the two officers and jabbed a finger towards Prowl’s stoic visage.“If you ever pull another slag-helmed stunt like this, I will personally weld your aft to an exam table and leave you to rust. Got it?”

“Yes, Ratchet.” Prowl said with his usual aplomb.

“And you, Jazz,” Ratchet began, only to stop suddenly at Jazz’s lack of reaction and glance back at his scanner.

“His audios are off, aren’t they?” He asked Prowl with a sigh.

“Yes. I believe the damage to his audio horn rendered them inoperative. We have been using encrypted comms for communication.” The tactician nodded carefully.

“The Pit take you both.” The medic grumbled. “Now, help me get him on the ship.” Ratchet’s tone softened slightly. “It’ll be good to have you two back. We thought we had lost you both.”

“Heh. It takes more than this to put me ‘n Prowl outta action.” Jazz smirked as the tactician guided him onto the ship.

Ratchet eyed them both owlishly even as he led Jazz to a seat near the cockpit.

“I am relaying him the content of our conversation via comms.” Prowl answered the medic’s unspoken question.

Ratchet simply huffed and got to work. On silent pedes, Mirage floated up the aisle towards the cockpit, stopping to inspect the state of his commander with cold optics.

“How do I look, ‘Raj?” Jazz grinned, his humor not quite reaching his bare optics.

“You look like scrap, sir.” The spy sniffed, voice like tinkling glass.

“Thanks, mech.” The Polyhexian snorted a bitter laugh.

Mirage said nothing, instead stalking into the cockpit and preparing them for take off.

“Idiots.” Ratchet grumbled, examining the fused circuitry in Jazz’s elbow. “All of you. Idiots.”

“Ya don’t get into this business if you aren’t at least a little bit of an idiot.” Jazz quipped, optics scanning the ship.

“I didn’t intend to become involved in this business, therefore please do not include me in the labeling of your profession.” Prowl stated, optic ridge quirking upwards.

“Still, you were actin’ like an op’ out there, Prowler, and a good one at that. You’ve got a bit our particular brand of idiocy or insanity in there somewhere.” Jazz teased, smirking at the tactician's annoyed huff.

“I claim no similarity to you or your department.”  Prowl replied, not fully able to hide the upwards twitch of his lip plates.

Ratchet huffed again, waving a hand dismissively.

“Don’t care, you’re all idiots to me. Now shut up and let me work. And get some recharge while you're at it.” The CMO grumbled, glaring at Jazz. “Primus knows your systems need it, though you’re not the only one.”

Jazz’s exposed optics flicked to the medic, a trace of wariness flickering across his gaze. He was still on edge, Ops protocols and vorns of experience forbidding him from relaxing or recharging outside one of his secure areas, like his office or his quarters in Iacon. Background programs flared to life, providing threat assessments, cataloging every possible danger and its counter, leaving his frame twitchy and processor hyperaware, fingers clutching the knife in his hand with a crushing grip.

But then his piercing perusal landed on Prowl, the tactician regarding him with shrewd optics. There was no way he had missed the silent byplay of emotions that had danced across Jazz’s expressive optics, the signals of stress lacing his frame. Jazz knew this should have bothered him, that such a moment of vulnerability in the middle of a mission could get him killed. But somehow the steadiness of Prowl’s azure stare calmed him, the mech’s barely there smile somehow the perfect expression of his typical equanimity and yet so strange that Jazz couldn’t resist its pull. The Head of Special Operations let his helm rest against the hull of the ship and offlined his optics, the hum of the ship’s engines against his plating lulling his processor into a blissful silence. Jazz freefell into recharge, armor flattening and tension bleeding from his limbs, the reassuring weight of his knife slipping from his limp fingers. The hazy afterimages of intelligent optics and a tiny smile reassured Jazz of his safety quicker than any weapon.

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism is always welcome and thanks for reading!


End file.
